


And His Life Was Back to Normal

by kayliemalinza



Series: The Normal Trilogy [1]
Category: Velvet Goldmine
Genre: Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bratting, Dubious Consent, M/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-08-30
Updated: 2002-08-30
Packaged: 2018-01-01 23:28:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1049847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayliemalinza/pseuds/kayliemalinza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 1984. Arthur hangs around the bar where he last saw Curt, hoping to see him again. Stuff happens. Curt and Arthur act like men.</p><p>Teaser: What was he doing here? Just because he'd seen Curt at this bar once didn't mean he'd see him again. Arthur had been coming here for a week, and he still hadn't showed up. And Arthur kept getting drunk. Why couldn't he be an interesting drunk and get into bar-fights? Why must he always cry into the free peanuts?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bar

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the date--this was written in the summer of 2002. I can't promise this fic doesn't have any ish. Actually, I _can_ promise that there's some gross gender essentialism in here and probably some internalized misogyny/effemenophobia. Although some of that is probably a little tongue-in-cheek? Anyway, if that kind of thing doesn't bother you, then this is probably a pretty fun read.
> 
> Trigger warnings at the end.

Arthur Stuart peed standing up. He’d stopped wearing make-up and glitter. His apartment was messy, and his socks had holes in them. The true characteristics of a man. So why did he feel like such a pansy?

Because he let Curt Wilde go. It had made sense at the time; he was a respectable reporter with suitably bland taste in clothes and few friends. And Curt was an ex-rocker. The two didn’t mix. And opposites don’t attract. Arthur grinned sadly to himself. If he believed they did, he’d be straight. But he wasn’t. He most incredibly was not straight. True, for a few years he’d been able to confuse himself, establish some doubt, but one look at Curt changed all that. He’d felt like a teenager all over again, tongue-tied and shameful. Damn, that man was hot. But Arthur couldn’t have him.

“Shit.” The word spilled, unbidden. It felt good. He swore again, to be manly. And took a swig of beer for good measure. Dammit, his hand was shaking. What was he doing here? Just because he’d seen Curt at this bar once didn’t mean he’d see him again. Arthur had been coming here for a week, and he still hadn’t showed up. And Arthur kept getting drunk. Why couldn’t he be an interesting drunk and get into bar-fights? Why must he always cry into the free peanuts? 

Because he’d let Curt go.

Arthur rested his head in his hands. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he loved Curt Wilde, oh no. Curt Wilde was a concept, you couldn’t really have emotional attachment to it. It was most definitely the sex. That was the truth. He wanted to fuck Curt Wilde. Because Curt had been his first. Dammit. Arthur sighed and allowed himself the memories. The slow, languid way he smiled. The way his hand curled around the cock as if it belong there. How his hair felt drifting on Arthur’s back. And how it felt for the first time when they— 

“Hey.” Arthur looked up, startled. The bartender was staring at him. “You gonna want another?” he asked. Arthur glared, shook his head. He needed to head home. If he stayed any longer he’d actually talk to the guy at the other end of the bar who’d been winking at him all night. And that just wouldn’t be good. 

Arthur stood and bent down to grab his carrier bag. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone slap a bill on the bar and receive a beer in return. He slung the bag over his shoulder, and stared in shock.

Curt Wilde was standing right next to him. He could smell Curt Wilde. He could see Curt Wilde. And damn, he was sexy as hell. 

Curt Wilde was getting a little freaked out. The guy— he vaguely recognized him as the reporter from the other day— wouldn’t stop staring at him. He could understand if this was some long-devoted fan finally meeting him, but the guy had met him last _week_ for god’s sake. Maybe talking would help. It worked for dogs.

“Hey,” Curt said. “New York’s not that big after all, is it?” The kid slowly shook his head, mouth gaping open in wonder. Then, something about the expression on his face— Curt began to suspect he knew this guy from someplace else. Maybe he should figure this out. He took a swig of beer. “So uh... You a fan?” The guy smiled. Good, an actual response.

“I saw you at the Death of Glitter concert,” he breathed. Curt’s eyes widened in surprise. _That_ ’s where he knew the kid from. Well. He’d fucked a lot of groupies in his time, but this kid— Arthur? stood out. Wasn’t often he got a virgin. Curt grinned, looking him up and down. He’d definitely filled out. Certainly looked a lot better without all that make-up. What the hell. Curt didn’t have anything to do tonight. He’d do the kid a favor. He leaned forward, whispering in his ear.

“Wanna go back to your place?” The kid nearly melted. Curt laughed to himself. Haven’t lost my touch, he thought as they left the bar. 


	2. That Night

Curt smiled as he led the boy into his bedroom. The kid looked like ten years ago. Despite his height and manly figure, he still acted like a virgin. That could be sweet, he thought. But the kid was in his own apartment, and couldn’t find the way to the bedroom. Curt supposed it was partly his fault; One could hardly be expected to think straight after some tongue from the great Curt Wilde. He sat at the edge of the bed, pulling Arthur onto his lap. He cupped the boy’s cheek in his hand, lifting soft dark hair out of his face. Curt moved in for the kill, grinning. For all his pretty doe eyes, the kid looked like a deer caught in headlights. 

Curt came with a queer sense of boredom, kissing Arthur’s cheek and thinking, “That’s was nice.” The kid did everything Curt told him to— and not much more. Curt decided he couldn’t spend the night with a guy who reminded him of moon pies. He slid off of the bed, collecting his pants. The kid sat up, sheet wrapped around him, eyes hurt and disbelieving. I’m getting too old for this, Curt thought. The kid probably hasn’t gotten laid since 1975. He buckled his belt, watching Arthur. 

“Guess I’ll see you around?” At least he could go to his office tomorrow and tell everyone he took Curt Wild home with him. Still, the pain in the kid’s eyes touched him a little bit. But Curt couldn’t be love for every groupie that came along. 

Arthur stared. Ten years of memories, ten years of anticipation, and then this? He’d been dumbstruck, astonished by the great Curt Wild. He’d submitted completely, wanting Curt to guide him, pleasure, teach him like years ago. And it was bad sex. And Curt was walking away, thinking that Arthur was horrible, that Arthur was a virgin, that Arthur was another nameless, love-struck fan. Well, he had been. But not anymore.

Curt looked up from lacing his boots and furrowed his brow. The kid had changed. His face was angry, hard. Curt saw the sheet move in front of him and knew the kid’s hand was there, slowly jerking himself off. Curt swallowed. He hated when groupies got offended.

“Hey man, that was great, really. I’ve got your number. I’ll call, alright?” He made to escape, one hand on the doorknob. The boy said,

“Wait.” He rose from the bed, sheet falling away like old skin. He walked to Curt, hands outstretched like demons. Curt saw a brief flash in the other man’s eyes before he was devoured. Arthur shoved his tongue roughly into the bastard’s mouth, his teeth grinding against the other’s lip. Curt gasped in pain. His lip was bleeding by now, and Arthur’s grip on his hair was excruciatingly tight. But Arthur didn’t care. He flung Curt to the bed, eyes blazing. Curt tried to get up, but Arthur shoved him back into the mattress. Damn, but the kid was strong! Curt wiggled as Arthur ripped his pants down to his ankles, not even bothering to remove the rest of his clothing. He wondered briefly if it was rape, but he was so goddamn aroused he couldn’t think straight. 

Arthur grabbed Curt’s cock in a tight, rough grip. Curt cried out, fingers reaching for any part of the hot body above him. Arthur was poised between his legs, ready to take a swift dive. Panicked, Curt grabbed at his arms.

“No,” he croaked. “I don’t do it that way.” For a moment he was afraid that Arthur would ignore him, and fuck him anyway. From the gleam in his eyes, Curt knew he was definitely considering it. But at the last moment Arthur straddled his hips, raised himself high, and came down with a shuddering blow. Curt winced, more for Arthur’s sake than his. Shit, but that took balls. Arthur hunched over, fingers gripping the sheets as he dealt with blinding pain. Then he was moving, impaling himself again and again. He could see Curt thrashing about, a look of ecstacy and blood dribbling from his lips. 

Arthur pushed harder, setting a frenzied pace as he neared orgasm. Gone was frightened outcast teenager. Gone was the quiet Glam fanboy, with cheap hair-dye and bad make-up. Gone was the repressed New York reporter who jacked off in the shower every morning because he was too sad to get a fuck, who spent every day in tired office, writing page after page of shit he didn’t care about, because he needed a respectable job, a respectable life, and respectable misery. Gone was his entire life, replaced by an awesome fucking rush, the adrenaline of control, and a man between his thighs. 

Arthur screamed, his ejaculation arching upwards like fire, a heavy rain that splattered the wall, the sheets, and Curt’s face. Arthur decided he looked good like that. 

Dimly he felt Curt’s orgasm fill him, a tepid warmth inside his gut. Arthur slid off him, and let out an enormous yawn. Curt tried to reach up, to kiss him, or to hold him, but Arthur turned away. He wrapped himself in the cleanest bit of sheet he could find, and curled up near the wall. Curt lay beside him, covered in cum and dizzy from breathing so hard. Damn, thought Curt. That was terrific sex. 


	3. The Morning After

Arthur awoke, like most of his life, alone. He didn’t even have to stretch a hand to the coldness of the other side of the bed to know that Curt wasn’t there. Arthur couldn’t remember much of the night before, but Curt had left for a reason. Was this his fault? Did Curt leave, thinking Arthur was crazy or worse, a bad lay? Dammit. So much for regular sex. Arthur pulled himself out of bed with a grimace. Some might think the burning pain was a pleasant reminder of the previous night’s activities. Well screw them. It still hurt. 

He padded over to the bathroom, going about his morning hygiene. He spent a lot of time looking at himself in the mirror. Curt thought he was handsome. And Curt generally had good taste, right? Then again, Curt had turned off the lights before they started. Dammit. Oh hell, he thought, watching his own dark eyes and running a hand across his smooth chest, I’d date me. Arthur smiled wryly to himself as he stepped into the shower. One good thing about last night, besides the fact that it was fun, was that he didn’t have to jerk off this morning. Which was fortunate, as the tiles were starting to smell. 

Freshly washed and combed, Arthur walked out of the bathroom with a yawn. Glad he didn’t have work today. He still needed to finish that article due tomorrow. Arthur yawned again as he put on boxers and sweatpants. Oh well. He’d work on it after breakfast. Arthur suddenly got a good look at the bed. He blushed. Should’ve known those weren’t food crumbs. He tugged at the sheets, wadding them up. At least the laundry room was just down the hall from his apartment. 

There came sounds of movement from the living room. Arthur dropped the sheets, suddenly tense. Who the hell would be in his apartment at ten in the morning? He looked at the bedding at his feet. Oh. Duh. Arthur stepped carefully out of the bedroom, not sure what to expect. The coffee-maker perked away happily on a kitchen counter, and the smell of toast reached his senses. Arthur blinked as it popped out of the toaster. How absurdly normal. Then strong arms grasped him from behind, and there was a low growl in his ear.

“You’re an animal, you know that?” Arthur turned, his gaze indiscernible as always. Curt slid away, running a sheepish hand through his hair. He noticed Arthur looking at his chest.

“Oh,” he said. “I borrowed a shirt, hope you don’t mind. Mine was a little uh... Dirty.” Arthur gave no response, or even an indication he’d hear what Curt had said. Curt was starting to get uncomfortable. 

“You sleep well?” he asked. Arthur just stared. Curt was acting not afraid, exactly, but cautious. Was there something he didn’t know about? Then Arthur saw the cut in his lip, and the memories of the night before came gushing back. Well. Curt certainly had reason to be cautious. He’d been so rough, almost brutal. Yet Curt was still here. Arthur smiled at the subtle shift in control.

“Come here,” he said. Curt obeyed with the fearful eagerness of a puppy. Arthur wrapped his fingers in Curt’s hair, much more gently this time, and kissed him. Arthur realized he was actually taller than Curt by a few inches. He had always seemed larger than life, a rebelling Adonis. Yet Curt was warm against him. Arthur took his time, swiping his tongue across the other man’s lips to taste the copper of a healing wound. Then he pulled away, and Curt opened his eyes. He leaned to initiate a kiss, hoping to gain control this time, but Arthur was headed for the refrigerator. Sure is a weird one, thought Curt. But I can deal with that. 

Arthur was intent on buttering his toast. He really didn’t want to think about the situation right now. One simply didn’t strip away years of steady work and quiet social life to become a sex fiend. A gay sex fiend, no less. With a former rock star. And beyond that— he’d wanted to forget that part of himself. And he almost had. But had a decade of repression born a monster? Arthur didn’t think about last night. He didn’t think about the anger that went through him, and the violence that felt so right. He had been, for those five minutes, an honest-to-god cave-dwelling, testosterone-driven, dominating _man_. It had felt incredibly good. But could Arthur live like that? To let loose his most primal urges— Suddenly there were warm arms about his waist and hot breath in his ear. Arthur dropped the knife. 

“Hey there,” Curt said lightly. “I think you might need that.” He picked up the knife and fitted it back into Arthur’s hand, entwining his fingers with his own. Arthur concentrated on breathing. The hot breath had moved down his neck. A tongue flicked across the nape of his neck. The toast was forgotten. Curt rolled his hips against his victim, and used his best voice.

“I wanna fuck you....” The kid actually stopped breathing. Point one for Curt. He’d definitely regained control. Curt nearly grinned, though it was disappointing. Arthur was doe-eyed again, like last night had never happened. Maybe he’d just have to make him angry again. Arthur took in a ragged breath.

“I have to wash the sheets—” he protested. Curt nibbled an ear lobe.

“The floor looks fine to me.” Oh god, that voice, right into his ear moist breath.... Arthur ground his teeth, gripping the counter as his knees turned to jelly. He would not give in. He would not be a little boy again. If only Curt wouldn’t put his hands there— Arthur jerked. Oh, damn that had felt good. But shit. He closed his eyes, set his mind, and shoved backwards. Curt stumbled back, startled but not deterred. Arthur rushed into the bedroom before the seductor could grab him again. He grabbed the sheets and a few quarters and ran out the door. It slammed shut behind him. Curt grinned and took a bite of toast. Looked like the kid was going to be fun after all.


	4. The Laundry Room

Arthur shifted on the plastic chair as he waited for the sheets to dry. He’d been in here for half an hour already. He was cold, and bored, and confused as hell, but he couldn’t go back. He wrapped his arms closer about himself and tried to keep his feet out of the draft. Damn, in a minute he’d climb into a dryer himself. Arthur looked at the one across from him. He was pretty flexible; he probably could fit inside it. He stood to get a closer look. That sucked. He’d forgotten those fin-type things that stuck out from the inside to move the clothes around. Oh well. The spinning would’ve made him sick anyway. Arthur sat down again, drawing his legs up to his chest. Why the hell didn’t he grab a shirt? Stupid, stupid. This was October, in New York. Of course it’s going to be cold. But some things are warm. And they wiggle, and have long blonde hair, and— 

“God dammit!” His curse fried the morning air. Another one of the tenements had just walked in, and gave him an odd look. He ignored her. This was really getting to be a problem. Seriously, why was _he_ sitting here, freezing his ass off, while Curt lounged about his apartment in a nice warm leather jacket, eating his toast? Warm, crunchy, buttered toast. Crap. Now he was hungry, too. Arthur glared at the dryer. It dinged. He violently yanked the door open, grabbed his sheets, and stomped down the hall.

The door slammed behind him. Curt looked up.

“You’re out of orange juice,” he said. Arthur gaped. There was a box of cereal, his favorite cereal, spilled all over the carpet. The coffee table was covered in newspapers, with a mug leaving brown rings on _his_ article, he could see. And to complete the tableau, there was an empty orange juice carton and one blonde bastard quite at home on his brand new couch. 

Arthur let out a primal scream of rage. Curt wondered if perhaps he’d gone too far. The other man was charging towards him, the glint in his eyes something this side of murderous. Curt jumped over the back of the couch, cowering behind it. Arthur ran around it, and soon they were in full fledged chase mode. Curt let out peals of laughter as he leapt over furniture and skid around corners. By all rights he should be frightened out of his mind. His laughter was doing little more than infuriating Arthur, who snorted behind him like a cow in heat. But Curt didn’t care: it was like being on stage again. The same rush of adrenaline, same physical high, same destruction of random objects. Curt had a sudden impulse to strip and flick Arthur off. 

Then he took a wrong turn, and he was captured. Arthur shoved him up against the wall, snarling. Curt swallowed. There were two very angry eyes not an inch from his nose, two very angry fists cutting off circulation to his arms, and one very angry knee jabbing into his crotch. Curt knew that he could not sweet-talk his way out of this one. No matter what he said, Arthur was going to rip him apart and dance on the pieces. There was only one alternative to certain, painful death. 

Curt kissed him. 

It worked remarkably well. Arthur relaxed into it, and kissed back with anger or passion, he wasn’t sure which. But their hands were everywhere, and soon standing was not an option. Four minutes later, Curt lay panting on the carpet. 

Damn, he thought. It just keeps getting better. 


	5. Cold Coffee

Curt was nearly asleep when he felt Arthur stand and leave. He briefly hoped it wasn’t to get a gun, and wiggled about to get more comfortable. Hmm. Maybe he should move to the couch. Then he felt something warm and nubbly drape across his face. He opened his eyes. A towel? What the hell was he going to do with a— oh. Well, he was a little sticky. Curt sat up, half-heartedly wiping his chest and face. He wondered where Arthur was. It was his apartment, after all. Curt could see him in the kitchen, but wasn’t sure what he was doing. Then came the soft clunk of the toaster. Ah. 

Arthur carefully buttered his toast, hoping he might actually get to eat it this time. He took a bite and headed to the living room, determined to retain some semblance of his morning routine despite the naked rock star sitting on his floor. He made a noise of disgust as he stepped on the cereal, and kicked the crumbs under the armchair. The newspaper was, fortunately, in roughly the same order it came in. He picked up the half-empty mug of coffee and swirled it around a bit. After a brief moment of thought, he swallowed it all. Damn, it was cold. Oh well. Arthur opened the paper to his article first, as he always did. It was still somewhat decipherable underneath the coffee rings. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know what it said, anyway.

Curt watched Arthur peruse the newspaper, wondering all sorts of things. Like when Arthur would realize he was naked. Then again, Curt was naked, too and it didn’t bother him at all. He stood, gathering the towel and random articles of clothing. He went into the bedroom and threw them in a heap on the floor, eventually putting on some pants. It was October in New York, after all. He returned to the living room and leaned in the doorway, watching. Arthur really was kind of cute. And naked— Curt could safely say Arthur was splendid. But as much as he liked just looking at the guy, he figured he should start a conversation. Arthur could ask him to leave at any moment, so it was best to foster some emotional attachment. The sex was that good.

“Hey,” he said. Arthur didn’t look up. 

“Hmm?” he said. Rather non-committal. Curt continued.

“You work today?” Arthur shook his head, still reading. Curt ran a hand through his hair. 

“That’s good. We can do something, then.” Arthur looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

“If you’re bored,” he said. “You can make some coffee.” Curt scowled.

“No, I mean, _do_ something. Like go out.” He headed towards the kitchen. Coffee wasn’t a bad idea. Besides, he had to make up for drinking all the orange juice somehow. Arthur still hadn’t said anything, so he poked his head back into the living room.

“You know?” he said. 

Arthur looked up. “What?” 

Curt shook his head and poured two cups of coffee. He carried them over to the couch, handing one to Arthur and sitting on the coffee table. 

Arthur took a sip. “Thanks,” he said. 

Curt nodded. “Yeah. So what do you want to do with your life?” He couldn’t see Arthur because the paper was in the way, but from the silence it seemed like the kid was thinking pretty seriously about it. He lit a cigarette while he waited. 

“Well...” 

Curt leaned forward, wanting to hear better. 

“First, I want to read the paper.” 

Curt let out an exasperated sigh and a puff of smoke.“What about _after_ that?” he asked. 

Arthur shrugged.“Dunno,” he said, his accent lilting. 

Curt growled in frustration and looked for something to throw. Finding inspiration, he grabbed a handful of cereal from the floor and flung it over the paper. There was no response except a quiet crunching sound. Dammit. Curt tapped his fingers on his knee, searching for some other way to get Arthur’s attention.

“Hey,” he said suddenly. Arthur didn’t respond. That was fine. Curt carefully snubbed out the cig and leaned forward, a silly grin on his face.“That paper looks real interesting. Can we cuddle while you read it to me?” 

Arthur dropped the paper, the expression on his face incredulous. Curt laughed maniacally and jumped onto his lap. Arthur let out a small oof, then Curt’s lips were covering his own. Arthur sighed. If the Fates so conspired to make him a sex fiend, let it be so. Their tongues entwined, a lazy exploration. 

After a few moments, Curt pulled back.“What did you wanna be when you were a kid?” he asked. 

Arthur smiled. “You.” 

Curt rolled his eyes. Not that he minded the compliment, of course. “No, when you were little. What did you want to be?” 

Arthur looked away, his eyes becoming distant. Curt could almost see him searching through an index of memories. After a long moment, Arthur answered. His voice was slow, like a bug pushing its way out from underground.

“I wanted to be....” A moment more to think. “A fireman.” 

Curt laughed. Arthur looked mildly offended, so Curt kissed him again. “So what happened?” he asked. 

Arthur stole another kiss. “Hmm?” he said. 

“Why aren’t you a fireman?” 

Arthur gave him an odd look. “Because I’m a journalist,” he said slowly, as if explaining something very simple to a stupid child. 

Curt scowled.“But you _could_ have been a _fireman_ ,” he said. 

Arthur shook his head. “But I’m a _journalist_.” 

Curt growled in frustration and stood up, stepping over the back of the couch and landing neatly on the other side. He looked out the window at the New York skyline, brooding. He wondered if Arthur was watching him. He looked very attractive brooding. Or so he’d been told. 

Arthur picked up the paper again, shaking it to smooth out the creases. He tried to read, but Curt was brooding very effectively. “Fine,” he said impatiently. “What did _you_ want to be?” 

Curt watched the little people walk about on the streets below. He remembered doing this before, from countless hotel rooms. “I wanted to be a rock star,” he said softly. From the corner of his eye, he could see Arthur stand, quietly moving closer.

“Guess it’s not what you thought?” he asked. 

Curt shook his head. “No. No-one ever is.” 

Arthur couldn’t think of anything to say. His own memories pained him; as much as he was ashamed of who he was in the seventies, he couldn’t deny that Brian Slade had meant a lot to him. And Curt must be hurting more. Though he knew what to realistically expect from a one-night stand, Arthur had hoped this morning meant it would lead to something more. But suddenly he realized that Curt in pain beyond the reach of any sex to heal.

Curt watched Arthur’s reflection in the glass. The kid thought he understood. But Curt had been more than a groupie. He had been Brian Slade’s _lover_. They’d actually stayed up late talking about their dreams, their fears, their inner thoughts. His favorite memories didn’t involve sex; Their relationship had been more than sex. And so, when it was over, he hurt like hell. 

Curt suddenly moved from the window and went to grab his stuff. He was nearly out the front door before he turned to look at Arthur. He made a memory; The lean lines of his body, broad shoulders, and dark, dark eyes. 

“I guess I’ll see you around,” Curt said. Arthur watched him, the same desperate eyes from the night before. “Hey,” Curt faked a smile. “I know where you are. I’ll keep in touch, alright? I promise.” 

And he left. 

The door shut quietly behind him. Arthur didn’t fool himself for a moment. Curt Wild would not be coming back.

And his life was back to normal. 

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for blood (very small amount; a split lip) and non-negotiated rough sex.


End file.
